Life Of The Sea
by cookieMonsteer
Summary: Wallace…Morgan…Iolar Mara…Assassin…Templar... All just names, but names do not define who we are, I may hide behind my names but my ancestors have taught me only one to life…not that nothing is true…but I must take what I can or someone else will… I am a pirate with many names I love a man with many sides. I will tell you, my life, my story, my name... I am Morgan Kendrick.


_Chapter 1_

 _Beginning With The End_

The Green Dragon Tavern became silenced with the lyrics from a young man's verse, he must have been in his late twenties for his face seemed rough and sunken in at the cheeks, but his radiant blue eyes gleam with the life of the sea. He has broad shoulders that shaped his neatly brushed hair, pulled back into a red ribbon underneath his gold lined collar. It is said that he came from a small town in the north, but the way he looks, fair in the skin and freckles underneath his eyes, hint that his home is not where he finds himself tonight.

Looking out upon his audience the man rests against his stool and fingers something in his hand, the object Is rough, not easily moving within his fingers but hidden enough were as you can not see what it is. He takes in a large breath that seems like a sigh to the many around him, and in the wake of the silence he begins to sing once more. Looking at his audience as he does so often, he searches the many faces for someone he wishes to see, but perhaps is not meant to be seen at all.

" _Let me tell you, I'll tell you, of a woman of sea, her hair like the night, bleached down by the light, oh Madam Iolar, Mara mother of sea._

 _On the tides you ride, your hidden by pride, your name oh fair Wallace, you hide, for on the sea fair knows Madam Iolar, the name you hide behind_

 _Oh find my fair lady, Morgan I will sing , for you my lady, must die with your pride, and leave me your love, your treasure, your lies, But find my fair lady you'll die_

 _Be brave fair Madam, Wallace, or Morgan, for the moon is high, in the northern sky, I'll see you fair lady don't cry."_

The crowd applauds the boy and returns to their drunken gambling and games. But he remains on his stool; even after the applause resides and with the rising ruckus of the room, he tightly shuts his eyes, squeezing his hand into a fist before standing. Shoving the unknown object into his coat pocket, he begins to walk towards the bar without a word, only a stroke of the hand across his eye to wipe away a tear or two that fell during his poetic musical.

As the minstrel drinks at the bar, a man remains seated in the audience. He is with two others, but pays no mind to them, as he seems entranced by the song that was just played to the taverns inhabitants. He knows who the song was sung for, or rather sung about. " _How would he know her?"_ the man ponders over the thought, leaning farther into his chair as he crosses his legs, one on top of the other.

"Some voice that lad's got, ay Haytham? The man beside him is more than a little drunk; he projects his voice so loudly that it echoes through the Tavern and drifts over to the young musician, who turns sadly over his shoulder to gaze upon the drunken man and his companion, but keeps silent as he sips his liquor.

Haytham stares at the boy for a solid minute before turning back to his companion in disgust, "I believe so Thomas, how about you and Charles head upstairs, I will join you shortly" Haytham is not offering advice, but enforcing an order. He wishes to speak with the musician alone, and without disturbance but he sees his opportunity slimming as the taller man, Charles, reaches across the table and presses against his arm.

Charles Lee, Haytham's closest friend shoots him a look as he lifts out of his seat, gently pressing Haytham's arm as he stands. It is without thought that he obeys his commands, But he is not sure if visiting this descendant is such a grand idea, for he too knows the meaning of the musician's words, and the pain it causes. However at the same time, his trust in Haytham is greater than any and so, practically dragging Thomas up the stair of the tavern, he allows Haytham the solitude he asked for.

Haytham grabs his blue and gold hat off the table and opted towards the bar, discouragement shrouding him when the young man disappears from the tavern, leaving coins and Celtic looking ring on the bars counter. He sighs, leaving his money on the table, enough to pay for a nights worth of drinks before diverging onto a new path outside of The Green Dragon.

The night air is crisp, as it always is after the rain. The sun rests under the horizon, leaving the streets of Boston to the light of the sparsely scattered lamp posts. The streets are bare and ghostly without the company of the daytime crowds. To Haytham this is no daunting illusion, the vacancy of the town allows an easier means of location, and being the only other man on the road, he expects his meeting with the musician to be simple as well as binding.

"Pardon me good sir!" The sound of Haytham's boots echo down the road at he trots up to the young man, the slight breeze offering a safe barrier between him and his target, who scarcely knows he is there. For the man does not answer, he simply continued to walk onward in disregard to Haytham's hospitality, slightly who is becoming apparently aggravated.

"Sir!" Reaching to the man's arm, Haytham rests his palm onto the stranger's overcoat causing him to turn around quickly as though frightened by another's touch. Haytham now faces the man, His blue eyes starring coldly but red with grief. Haytham was in a shock to recognize that he potentially knows the man in front of him, however his voice seems completely foreign, leaving him one again a stranger in Haytham's eyes.

"Yes Sir?" His voice is raspy and not as clear as it was previously in the tavern, he had been crying hard and was attempting to mask whatever it was he was feeling with a crooked smile, exposing is perfect teeth.

"You were singing in the tavern tonight…" Haytham stepped lightly in front of the gentleman, pulling his gaze as he moved. "A truly beautiful piece if I may say so myself." All the while keeping a handsome smile, Haytham found himself focusing on the man's hand, as slipping through it was a piece of braided leather, something that would belong to a necklace or a pendent.

Noticing Haytham's fixation, the man moved his hand slowly towards his pocket and placed the object within it. "Many thanks sir, it is always pleasing for a man to know his work is appreciated." Removing his hand from his pocket the man took a long breath, and in releasing it in a short gasp as he was caught by Haytham's strong voice.

"Please, walk with me…" extending his hand out towards the street, the gentleman cautiously walked on. " I take it you are a musician then." Haytham folds his hands behind his back as he continued walking. He often found he was glancing at the man, his face mostly. Worn and tired with much doubt , a characteristic most men at Haytham's age would have, not someone in his mid twenties.

"You are mistaken sir, I am a blacksmith. Have been since I was a lad." Cracking his knuckles, the man seemingly began to notice the sly stares but kept walking on not only to avoid conflict, but he is now intrigued with Haytham's curiosity.

"Is that so, you are a lucky lad to inherit your mother's voice." Haytham was looking straight ahead now, unknowing his words were running away with him, for he was now deep into thought remembering the lyrics to the young lad's song.

"Yes…It Is…." It is a long pause until anything is said between the two men. " _Could it be, that the man who Morgan wrote about in her letters, or just another who followed her cause."_ The young boy gazed off towards the harbor, where a single ship kept port. He is deep in thought and barely hears Haytham speak, but once he does the boys attention is hauled back into conversation.

"She was a remarkable woman, Madam Iolar Mara…" Haytham stared into the distance as the boy looked at him. Something is playing in his head, much like a story or a memory. The salty mist accumulated in the air now, and fell onto Haytham's face like a kiss from the sea.

"If I may ask… who might you be sir, to know so much about The Madam?" masking his emotion with a smile, the man found himself studying Haytham's face, from his stormy gray eyes, to the quivering of his lips showing now obviously that he knew Morgan, personally rather than historically like many other men.

"Forgive me, I am Haytham Kenway…" Extending his hand for a proper introduction, Haytham bore a fatherly smile to the young lad and within it an ounce of hope, a hope that is unexplainably familiar. " I am one of the many few who knew the Madam as Morgan Kendrick."

"William Thatch." Shaking Haytham's strong hand, William felt the ring of the Templars on his fourth finger. "She spoke wisely of you Sir. She asked me to tell you…." William's voice paused, his eyes faced the ground and then back at Haytham.

"What may that be?" pulling his hand away, He too saw his hopeful reflection in William and, as if he was compelled, began looking off towards the harbor. Within that harbor, the lone ship he knew very well to be the fastest ship of the sea.

William's voice deepened, he started walking towards the ship and beckoned for Haytham to follow. He said nothing more to the Templar until he was far off into the distance. "The ship Master Kenway!"

"What about the ship William?!" already running after him, Haytham became alarmed by the strong wind that now blew against him. Glancing up just in time to see William toss something into the air. The object landed only four steps in front of him, but oddly Haytham would not step to retrieve it.

"I will send in the morning, and she may tell you herself!" William seemed now to be exited and subtly worried. But that worry is to be saved for another time, and furthermore explained when that time occurs. As for the excitement, he knows that one other person will know the true Life of Morgan Kendrick, and not the life she hid behind.

For Haytham, it was no use calling after the man, for once retrieving the item from the ground, William had already gone from his sight, leaving him standing alone next to Morgan's ship, holding a relic that had once been kept a secret upon Morgan's chest until now.

Lifting the pendent to his lips, Haytham allows the remaining scent of the sea to fill his head, adding a hint of fresh Mountain Avens, a flower native to the highlands of Scotland. He tightly grips the pendent as he moves it away from his mouth, missing the scent as he does so. But before tying it around his own neck for safe keeping, Haytham glides his fingers over the wooden eagle, feeling its crevasses and over the golden stone it grips in its talons.


End file.
